Dynamics
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: The Round Table boys realize what they mean to each other the hard way. Please read and review. WIP. No slash.
1. Prologue

A/N: Well – I started a new KA fanfic, just for the hell of it. Not sure where this is going, if I'll finish it, or what. We'll see. I still have to finish GA, and to those read it, I'm very sorry. I won't leave it unfinished, though.

This takes place when the Round Table men are very young. You'll see. Also: sorry for the shortness.

On a random note: I love **Sin City.** I really do. I just can't over it – or Dwight, for that matter. Does anyone know if the music on the main menu of the DVD is on the soundtrack too?

Please read and review. Thank you.

* * *

Prologue

"I, Lancelot of Sarmatia, before the gods of both my people and yours, pledge my fealty unto you, Artorious Castus of Rome. To you, I bind my life, my death, my body and heart. I vow to follow you all the days of my service – that which ends fifteen years from this day. And ever after will I remain yours – in friendship. May my sword serve no other master. May my horse follow no other man. May I die for your life if it is asked of me. May you look upon me with grace – Arthur. May you have mercy for your knight, as I have devotion for you."

He did not lift his head. He did not see the unshed tears in Arthur's eyes. The Roman did not let them fall. He crushed them, as he kissed his last knight's curls. And once risen, Excalibur blessed Lancelot's shoulders. And it was done. Arthur's Round Table was complete. Lancelot rose at last and looked at Arthur, all the world silent around them. They spoke something then without using their lips. Arthur slipped his hand around Lancelot's neck.

"May you have half the love for me as I have for you," he said to the knight. Lancelot did not answer, and Arthur did not wait for him to do so. He looked beyond to the other knights, the wind high above him.

"Men," he called. "You have done me a great honor this day. It is with pride and affection that I call you my knights. And it is my hope – that you should hold within your breasts the same emotion for me one day. I pledge my allegiance to you, each and every one of you. I promise to lead you as best I can, to offer my life before any of yours. I promise to bring you home again, once your service is through. I vow to look at you as men and not as soldiers, brothers instead of slaves. Whatever God we serve, whatever people we defend, may we forget it all for the sake of unity. And, as according to the Round Table of our hall, may no man ever rise above the rest."

They hailed Arthur well and loud at this, but the Roman did not smile. He only looked at them with that same, weary expression Lancelot would come to recognize in the years to come. Responsibility was Arthur's burden now more than ever. And though they would ride out tomorrow and begin their true service to Rome, though they may very well be killed, though they would have to face their first killings, the knights hailed Arthur and roared out as if to provoke their enemies from the wilderness. But Arthur did not smile. Lancelot moved closer and laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassurance.

They were young. They should have been. They were also almost halfway through their lives, if they were lucky. Maybe if they had been fat, Roman senators or pampered clergymen, they could live to be fifty or sixty, but they were warriors. Forty would be old.

"Drink!" Gawain shouted. "Let's all have a drink!"

The others cheered him in agreement. His playful eyes sparkled as he looked to Galahad and laughed. The bar maids and the tenders were waiting for them, even if though it was still daylight. Tonight – they would revel in drunkenness as they had never been allowed to do so before. They were no longer knights-in-training, boys who needed to learn chivalry and honorable behavior. Now, they were men of war, and they could drink as much as they damn well pleased.

They eyed those bar maids with wolfish grins as they approached. They would have their beds filled tonight to match their stomachs. Arthur had arranged for them to have the rest of the day off. They could drink first, then have their first dinner as a true Round Table, and drink again afterward, until they all passed out for the night. Suddenly, however, Arthur didn't feel like joining in on the drinking, gluttony, and debauchery. He felt Lancelot's hand on his shoulder and felt responsible.

"Come on, Arthur," his knight murmured, as the others moved farther and farther away from them, toward the tavern. "Tonight is a night for celebration – the first since we've been here."

"I'm not in the mood, Lancelot."

"Not in the mood? What in gods' names do you mean by that? What else will you do all night?"

"I don't know. Think. Pray." Lancelot scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Meditate."

"You have the rest of your life to do that, Arthur. Come drink with me. We're not a Round Table without you."

Arthur looked at Lancelot with wilted eyes. Lancelot's implored him.

"All right."

That was the night they began their ritual of sitting back from all the rest, huddling together and murmuring over ale, watching things. They were pressed against each other, undisturbed by their companions, who were too immersed in their own pleasures – drinking, eating, kissing peasant girls, feeling up bar maids, flirting, laughing, joking, tossing knives. They had decided to skip the Round Table dinner and stay out here. The cooks had grumbled about sending the food over.

"What shadows your mind now?" Lancelot asked Arthur, drinking from his mug.

"Nothing."

"It may have only been six months, Arthur, but you can't lie to me."

"Pity."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing now. But it could all be tomorrow. Or the day after that."

"Oh, Arthur," Lancelot chided. "You can't be talking about battle. We've been training all this time. It's the only reason we're here. We've known it all along. You can't already feel guilty for losses that haven't happened yet or even fear what may come. Warriors can't function that way."

"Since when do you know so much about being a warrior?"

"You're missing my point."

"No. No, I see your point. But I can't help myself. This is my burden, Lancelot. This is my burden as captain. It's my burden as a friend."

"We could all feel the same with absolute justification – but it would destroy us over time. It will destroy you. And we need you to lead us. Forget about it. Stop thinking and start drinking."

Arthur smiled a little at that. He sipped on his ale and knew Lancelot would never leave his side.

"You need to get yourself a woman, Arthur," said Lancelot, eyeing a red-head with a bosom that threatened to overflow out of her dress.

"I have enough on my hands."

"Oh, come on. They're the one uncomplicated thing available. You flirt with them, you seduce them, you bed them. That's it. Pleasure is pleasure."

"It's not right," said Arthur.

"You and your morals," Lancelot brooded, taking another drink.

"I want love," Arthur admitted, surprising his knight. "Not just a night."

"You don't have enough love?"

Lancelot's voice was now gentler, his eyes full and shining, his face breaking and giving away his youth. Arthur smiled to himself with brittle lips.

"No."

Lancelot's brow knit.

"What is enough?" he asked.

"If I knew that, I could be a philosopher in Rome instead of a soldier."

Lancelot pursed his lips. No one minded the rain.

"I'm no woman," said Lancelot. "But I can do my best."

Arthur smiled. He looked at his knight affectionately. Lancelot smiled back. Arthur offered his mug, and Lancelot toasted. They drank.


	2. Chapter 1: Protection

A/N: I finally got around to writing this first chapter. Maybe I'll flesh this story out afterall... We'll see.

Please read and review. Thank you.

Sorry for the shortness.

No slash intended.

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Chapter 1: Protection

Sextus came on _Jovis dies_.

It was mid winter, over a year since the knights had come, six months since they had been knighted. Lancelot was seventeen. He had survived his first battle and a handful of skirmishes. He had three scars and an attitude. Arthur was still responsible, but he'd grown too. Day by day, Excalibur became more and more like an extended part of his body. So did Lancelot.

The knights had not been expecting the Roman party. Arthur had.

"We have visitors," said Lancelot, striding into Arthur's study. "And they carry your banner."

He looked up from writing. Lancelot had thought of being able to write like Arthur, and Arthur had wanted to teach him. They hadn't discussed it yet.

"Sextus," said Arthur, looking at the words again.

"Sextus?"

"A Roman officer. He just ended a campaign in the far south. He thought he would drop by and have a look at the Wall."

"It's a wall," Lancelot grumbled.

"He wants to see you," said Arthur bluntly. "And all the other knights. He wants to know what I've done with you."

"It's none of his damn business."

"It doesn't need to be."

Lancelot looked away, and Arthur kept writing. It was bitter outside, but some of the men drank in the tavern anyway, warming their blood with ale. Peasants still did their work, and children still played in the square. Knights still trained – like Galahad and Gawain in one of the yards. Gawain laughed at the way Galahad gritted his teeth, as if Gawain were really an enemy. Tristan rubbed an arrowhead between his fingers, waiting for the hawk.

"Behave," said Arthur.

"Behave?" Lancelot echoed indignantly. "I don't have to do a damn thing for any Roman bastard."

"Well – this Roman bastard would like you to keep the peace."

Lancelot blushed. "You know I didn't mean —"

"I know. You seem to forget that I belong to Rome, too."

"You haven't been to the place since childhood. You aren't as Roman as you think."

"That is where my allegiance lies."

"My allegiance lies with you. That doesn't mean you own me."

"Rome doesn't own me," said Arthur more darkly.

"Sometimes, you act like it does."

Lancelot's face was aged with stubble, and his curls crowned his head. His cloak dragged heavy from his shoulders, and instead of armor or uniform, he only wore a tunic and trousers underneath, leather guards laced over his thighs and boots hugging his ankles. He only carried one sword on his hip, instead of his pair that had already grown accustomed to his back. Those were undisturbed in his room.

"Have you trained today?" Arthur asked, voice still edged and numb.

"This morning," Lancelot confirmed.

"I wondered why you weren't in your bed. You didn't have breakfast?"

"Not hungry."

Blade-dancing in the chill, twilight air left him feeling alive and tingling. The sensation filled him up, quenching any and every desire.

"You should grab something from the kitchen," said Arthur, dipping his quill in ink.

"I don't think I'll have an appetite until our company gets the hell back to Rome."

Arthur sighed. He knew Lancelot could drop in at the tavern or the kitchens whenever he pleased, so he decided not to push it. The Round Table would have dinner in the evening as always, and Arthur did not question Lancelot's attendance. Of course – Sextus would join them also. Arthur grimaced; this wouldn't be fun. The rest of his table could be complacent about the matter, but if Lancelot was in a bad mood, nothing could go over well for Arthur.

* * *

Magnus was watching when Lancelot wielded his pair of swords. The man was an older officer come with Sextus, bound for Rome itself. Arthur had met him once before, when his mother had still lived. The younger warrior shut his eyes at the thought of his mother.

"He is a fine swordsman," Magnus remarked, as Arthur came to stand at his shoulder. Both pairs of gray eyes looked to Lancelot, who was in the place every knight went to when they used their weapons – a place only they could reach, a place that hid their minds from the world.

"He is my best knight," Arthur supplied. Magnus glanced at him.

"Your best – or your most precious?"

"Are they not the same?"

Wind cooled the back of Arthur's neck. Clouds covered the sun; it would rain again.

"No," said Magnus. Arthur did not notice his wistful tone. Lancelot's skin glistened, and he took cold breaths. Arthur's sea-gray eyes followed his movements like God follows man's thoughts.

"Why him?" Magnus questioned. "Why is he your most precious?"

"Each of my knights is precious to me," said Arthur. His red cloak swayed.

"Stop dancing around the truth. Why is that man held above the rest?"

Arthur's eyes memorized the way Lancelot's muscles flowed.

"His name is Lancelot."

* * *

After dinner, Lancelot hovered in the tavern, watching Sextus and the Roman soldiers even while his fellow knights made merry all around him. The torches blazed and flickered, and no one paid any attention to Lancelot – until Sextus caught his eye.

"Pagan!" he called. "What are you staring at?"

Hadrian's Wall fell silent. Lancelot's smoldering eyes failed to overpower Sextus and his stoic gaze. People looked from one man to the other.

"I have a name," Lancelot said.

"I don't care about your name," Sextus replied. "A dog is a dog – good for nothing by bloodshed."

The black eyes sparked. No one moved. The Romans laughed. Dagonet frowned, knowing Lancelot's temper. Bors scowled at the man who insulted his comrade. Tristan only glanced once from the apple he was cutting away at with his hunting knife.

"And what are Romans good for?" Lancelot questioned loudly. Sextus stopped smirking. He waited a moment, before approaching the knight, who did not flinch.

"I would hold my tongue, if I were you," Sextus hissed in Lancelot's face.

"And what if I don't?"

"I'll cut it out."

Lancelot's lips twitched. "Would you eat it too? Or have the Romans grown more civilized than the barbarians you were a hundred years ago?"

Sextus' fist against Lancelot's jaw broke the knight's hypnotizing stare. Half the tavern rose to their feet – Lancelot's only family, men who could've been boys. Lancelot struck back, knowing before he did that it was a crime. Sextus hadn't been expecting it, but it did not take long for anger to surface in his face. His lip bled. Lancelot smiled.

"Come, bastard," he said, drawing his sword. "Let's do this the right way."

Lancelot had no sword – only the knife in his boot. He knew this Roman could carve him into a prize if he wanted to – but he wouldn't run. That was never an option.

Sextus' eyes glinted, waiting for Lancelot's response. He knew the knight had no sword and relished the ease with which he would take the insolent runt down. The knights beyond them made no move either. Lancelot may be their comrade, but to fight against a Roman unprovoked (or even provoked, for that matter) was a grave crime – punishable by some gruesome form of execution. Their nature quarreled with their loyalty.

"Fool," Sextus sneered at Lancelot, who only remained in his place. He lifted his sword, and Lancelot closed his eyes, standing as still as a ghost. He heard the blade whisper and then an unexpected clang. He opened his eyes.

Arthur was near him, Excalibur gleaming where it caught the light.

"Touch him again – and I'll make you regret it."

His voice was steady and seething. Sextus stared at him in disbelief.

"You dare threaten an officer of Rome? Your comrade?"

"_These_ men are my comrades, and they deserve the same respect you have shown me."

Sextus ogled at him.

"These pagan slaves deserve nothing but the death they will receive."

Arthur's eyes were hard on his, and Lancelot hovered at his captain's back, holding his breath.

"You better watch yourself, Castus," the stranger hissed. "They've weakened your heart."

Arthur glowered until Sextus stepped back and stalked off. He sheathed Excalibur and turned to Lancelot.

"Are you all right?"

Lancelot nodded. Arthur touched the cut on his cheekbone tenderly, smearing away the blood.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Not every Roman treats their soldiers the same."

"I didn't need to be reminded," said Lancelot, rubbing his face. Arthur grimaced.

"I'm sorry," he said again, looking to their huddled boots.

"For what?"

"The way some Romans think."

"You cannot be responsible for the actions of other men."

"He is Roman," said Arthur, sweeping off and making Lancelot hurry after him. "He came as a representative of my people. He has shamed them – and me."

They drove through the open corridors, brushing past running, laughing children and chickens and gossiping women. Lancelot's brow knit together.

"I have a responsibility to make sure my fellow Romans do what's right," Arthur continued. "Just as I have a responsibility to make sure my men do what they ought to."

"How much responsibility do you take on?" Lancelot questioned. Arthur didn't stop or answer; Lancelot grabbed his wrist and yanked him around. His eyes burned into Arthur's, while Arthur's poured into his, extinguishing the fire. Lancelot felt Arthur relax in his grasp and followed suite. Arthur looked weary again; if he was not angry, he was worn. He slipped out of Lancelot's hand like water, and Lancelot let him go – this time.

* * *

"They're just slaves," Magnus urged. He had interrupted Arthur in the younger man's study, having heard about the incident with Sextus, which could surely escalate into something nasty.

"They are much more than that!" Arthur retorted.

"They shouldn't be."

Arthur's eyes blazed into the older man's. Magnus had seen more battle, suffered more wounds, led longer. But Arthur's heart far surpassed his somehow. They both knew it.

"Do you know how many men can die in one day, Castus?" the elder Roman asked. "Hundreds. Thousands. You're Round Table is but fifty."

Arthur could not answer him but did not step back or loosen his fists.

"You cannot afford love," Magnus said softly. "None of us can – not in this life. Most men don't deserve it anyway."

"_They_ do," said Arthur. "They do."

Magnus sighed, held to Arthur's bright gaze.

"When they begin to fall," said the elder, "you will regret this path, straying from the way we are supposed to behave."

"I will not let one fall before offering my life first."

"What you speak is heresy," Magnus scowled. "A Roman's life is not worth less or equal to a pagan's."

"But equal to a friend's."

* * *

That night, Arthur knelt before the cross hung on his wall, candles glowing softly around him. He prayed. He murmured to God with a longing heart, overwhelmed with love, responsibility, and dread. He did not hear Lancelot approach but did not jump at the gentle touch of his knight's hand on his shoulder. It was a familiar thing.

"Arthur," came the voice, like a woman's veil in the wind. The Roman opened his eyes and looked to Lancelot, as if the knight were a saint's statue.

"Come to bed," his friend said, smiling. "God will still be here in the morning."

Arthur hung his head.

"Am I wrong to love you?"

Lancelot creased his brow and sat on the bed near his knelt captain.

"Why do you ask me this?" he answered.

"Tell me," Arthur said, looking to him.

"Is love ever wrong?"

Arthur grinned at that; Lancelot never failed in wit.

"But it can be unwise," he said.

Lancelot stood from the bed and knelt beside Arthur in a way he would barely do again in all the years yet to pass. He touched Arthur's shoulder.

"Love is love," he said. "I am a simple-minded man. I deal in blood, not heart – unless you count bedding women as part of such affairs."

Arthur grinned.

"But I do know that the heart does not choose its nature nor the people or causes it commits to. I know you are one of them – but for once, leave the Romans out of it. You are not like them, Arthur."

Their eyes hooked into each other's with mere light.

"You are a better man."

Arthur smiled faintly at him.

"I cannot be just a man," he said. "I must be a leader, too."

"Better to lead with heart than anything else."

And they were silent. Lancelot squeezed Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur leaned in to rest his head on Lancelot's. Lancelot tipped his head against Arthur's. The candle flames swayed.


End file.
